Letter To My Future Self
by dust to diamond
Summary: Two years after the events of Silent Hill 3, Cheryl Mason finds herself struggling to move on and finding meaning in a life that has been twisted and inverted since the shadows of her past attempted to drag her into what could only be described as 'literal hell.' During a much sought quiet evening, a seemingly innocuous knock at the door will further complicate matters.
1. Cheryl Mason, Age: 119

'_She was here_

_She was here_

_She was here, and she was real. And every bit of him lit up like an alleyway in the night. Bright lights fired off in his head, their chorus heavenly as the dust from the old streetlamps being blown away so ferociously as they lit up in him so brightly. He found the cacophony in him being slowly tuned, instruments that no longer sounded out of place sounding sweetly as they transformed from wails and howls to a consistent, synchronized hum – for once, the noises were now music. As his lips pushed gently on hers a small tingle crackled ever so lovingly around in his head, and the isolation, the loneliness that had made its home in his body was being suddenly forced out._'

The cascade of clicks and clacks from the machine reverberated softly as Cheryl's fingers moved across the typeface, her face slightly shadowed from the dim light of her lamp. Her cheeks scrunched in effort as she struggled to elicit the correct words needed to facilitate the scenario she was trying desperately to elucidate. The mechanical symphony bounced off the walls as her fingers finally stopped and her room fell into silence again. She slumped back in her chair, her eyes stared at the words on the paper, as if trying to draw some proper meaning from them as she read what she had typed over and over. Letting out a small sigh, her fingers removed the cigarette from her mouth as she quietly blew smoke into the atmosphere. She watched as it wafted, and found herself fascinated at the slow, meticulous movements the lines were making as they tumbled again and again in the air like some drunken fight.

She drew another small drag before placing the cigarette back in the ashtray, and her eyes found themselves once again fixated on the words on the paper, patiently waiting for Cheryl to commence with the world she was trying to weave together. Perhaps it was an effort to please herself, maybe her father, maybe even someone that was dumb enough to believe she had any legitimate credibility as a writer and would find themselves with a slight grin on their face as they read in bewilderment, but Cheryl had found that writing was one of the few key pleasures she had in day to day life. Two years ago, she had many other avenues to find happiness but ever since the time she spent in what she could only describe as 'some freaky hell,' it had left her squeezed of all the happiness and naivete she once strongly clung to. She may have only been a child then, but it was more than enough to force her to adapt more debilitating responsibilities. She found herself saying goodbye to the little girl she knew, and in the process she had aged at least one hundred years. Now, at the tender age of one hundred and nineteen, she found herself depleted of every resource she once looked to and grasping in the proverbial dark for something warm and alive. And in doing so she had found at least one other person that meant anything to her and the possessions of a father that no longer inhabited this earth.

She pondered briefly if this was something else she had inherited from her old man in his passing. After all, writing was only for bored housewives and novelists. She enjoyed reading, and even occasionally flipped a few pages of her dad's works in part amusement and part reverence, but the idea of writing – of pouring her thoughts out on paper was...cliche. The writer's daughter taking up the family business?

"Yeah, right..." Cheryl's words dispersed across the ivory keys and into the dark below, seeking shelter and comfort from such perverse notions. A slight smile tugged at the corner of her lips as she sat in bemusement, wondering what her old man would think at the sight of his little girl picking away at his favorite typewriter. She found herself mouthing sentiments she would have expected. 'I'm proud of you,' 'Here, let me show you some tips.' and her fingers found their way back onto the keys as she continued. Somewhere, off in the distant landscape of her memories, she quietly swore she could hear his voice, bubbling up to the forefront of her mind until the low tone of his voice made an impression and lasted for several minutes. '_That's my girl.' _Cheryl smiled.

A knock at the front door was just the excuse Cheryl needed to get something to drink from the kitchen. She passed by her cabinet, and in doing so unerringly cast a small gaze at the mirror. It was still taped, it would always be taped. When her and her surrogate guardian moved into the new place some months ago the first order of business was to tape up the mirror that came with the new furniture he had bought for her. It wasn't possible to get it without the accessory, so she made damn sure when it arrived she would never have to see herself. There was something about mirrors that always made her nervous, and the time spent in _that town_ only cemented said fear. It had played on her emotions at every chance, and there was one time in that one hospital when she could have sworn the person she saw in that one mirror…

Cheryl's lips let out a small 'No' as she shook the memory from her and mentally uttered a small curse in the hopes she'd lock away such tragedy forever. She longed for the day when her mind would eventually forget what she saw, what she heard, what she experienced. She longed for the day she would forget the girl she was and all that would be left would be her, would be Cheryl. It was a name her father had given her, but in their frequent vagrancy she had gone by something else. For nearly seven years she adopted the name as one would an identity and it shielded her from things that existed in the world that shouldn't. Things and people that defied all logic. She had only a minute grasp on the truth of the terror that haunted her in her past, but it was more than enough to make her jump at shadows cast by their misshapen figures. There were no names, only whispers and a scream she could barely register as her own. Maybe. She once believed her other self was enough to guard her. She once believed her father would save her. She once believed.

The knock at the door became louder. "Hold on, I'm coming!" she yelled at the entity on the other side. She wondered if he had forgotten something and had to come home early to retrieve whatever it was. A few steps later she was at the front door of the apartment, not bothering to change into something more appropriate. Her pajamas were enough for whomever it was on the other side, probably him anyways. She unlocked the latch and pulled open the door slightly.

"What did you forget, Douglas..." her words trailed off as she got a glimpse at the figure outside her door, and realized it wasn't the surly man she had come to call family. There, a small framed figure stood outside. The light overhead shadowed just enough of her face that Cheryl couldn't make out who it was at first, until she lifted her head and Cheryl felt her heart nearly jump out of her chest. Her bangs, short and brunette weren't unfamiliar to Cheryl – she had her hair like that when she was younger. Cheryl immediately clutched her chest to see if she was wearing the amulet her father gave her, but it wasn't there. This was real, and this girl had stepped out of some past she desperately wished had gone up in flames. Every bit of her that crystallized into the essence of someone she used to be was standing at her door, beckoning invitation like some dreaded creature that had come to drag her back to hell.

The girl's eyes shifted along the floor for a moment before they met Cheryl's, and she brushed a lock of hair from her face. Her freckles belied a childish nature. Her lips parted as she spoke. "Heather?"

Her eyes, her voice, _her voice_ that was coming out of this other person. It wasn't possible, _it was not possible_. But here she was. She was here, and she was real. Cheryl struggled to find the right words. Alessa simply smiled.


	2. Put Here To Feel Joy

Cheryl tipped the bottle into the glass once again, the smell of sweet hickory hitting her nostrils as she lifted it to her lips. Head tilted, the contents poured out and splashed the back of her throat before residing in her stomach below. An exasperated sigh left her mouth as she forcefully slammed the glass on the table, next to the bottle she had found hiding behind some pots and pans elsewhere in the kitchen. Cheryl's eyes drifted to the apparition that was quietly reading the backs of novels her father had collected over the years, and she found her face contorting in slight disgust.

"Those aren't yours, you know" the words, laced with acid, found themselves falling on deaf ears as Alessa's fingers softly touched the fabric in fascination as she pieced together what each one was about in her mind. Moments later, her head swiveled towards Cheryl. "These things, these...books...they weren't allowed by the Order. But mother did sometimes let me read children's literature. The nursery rhymes within were surprisingly erudite. On more than one occasion, I found myself repeating some of them when I would be left alone to foster God – to keep my spirits up!"

Cheryl reached for just the bottle this time. Alessa continued to explain things that were quietly beginning to take shape in Cheryl's mind: pieces of events that she could hazily recall were reshaping to some degree in a fashion that left her sucking on the head of the bottle like a newborn infant. She could feel Alessa's eyes on her as she lowered it, couch creaking as the girl repositioned herself. "...What?"

"Is that alcohol?" Alessa's innocence manifested itself in full display, her words softer than silk. Cheryl, to her amusement and for once since she let the nightmare in, found a perverse smile forming on her lips. "I write, of course it's alcohol." Cheryl suggested the bottle at Alessa, who simply waved it off as Cheryl grunted and returned the bottle to her lips.

The girl's chittering continued "alcohol is bad for you, you know. It can inhibit your judgment and ruin your liver." Cheryl's words tumbled out of her mouth as her eyes narrowed "I'm pretty sure God is bad for the human race, too. But to each their own." Alessa winced at her words and Cheryl quietly ruminated in victory – happy that she had finally penetrated that perfect exterior this other self had been presenting ever since she was let in. A minute or two of silence passed before Cheryl jumped to what she perceived as the end. "So...when are you going to drink my blood?"

Alessa's face shifted in confusion "I'm sorry?" Cheryl continued "You know...vampiric lore? This can't be real, so when are you going to just cut to the chase and sink your teeth in my neck?" Cheryl's hands wrung the neck of the bottle. "Or maybe you're not a vampire, maybe you're some bad dream that I haven't woken up from yet. Either way, I'm ready to get this over with."

Alessa could only stare as she watched Cheryl slam the bottle on the edge of the table as it shattered and the contents spilled out in panicked streams, across and over the table itself. Glass flew in a frenzy as Alessa jumped at Cheryl's display and her eyes widened in fear. Eyes fixated on the menacing figure now leering over her, Alessa instinctually moved back as her younger self held the broken bottle in hand, ready to cut into her soft flesh. Alessa screamed out "Heather, please!" Cheryl's free hand reached and pressed against the bosom of the nightmare that was wearing her face as she straddled the creature's frame and after some resistance had moved into position to bring the makeshift weapon swiftly into its neck.

Her breath came out ragged, "My name is _Cheryl" _voice raising at the end as well as her hand. Alessa's eyes stared in absolute fear before forcing them close and whispered a small prayer. Cheryl stopped and stared at the girl for a moment, the violence that overcame her rolling off her body in waves as she and Alessa stayed in such a position for what felt like hours. Blood that had been collecting in small rivers precariously hang off her chin before falling and splashing the now red cheek of the girl she used to be. She took a good look at her. Every bit of who she was, of the girl she used to be from a time she couldn't recall, from a life she couldn't recall was somehow real and was about to be snuffed out once again – this time, by the hands of who she had become. Alessa quietly sobbed as her voice choked and she opened her eyes, seeing the conflicted face of someone she desperately needed in her life, now. She softly begged for Cheryl's mercy, tears rolling down the side of her face and mixing with the blood that was pooling into the fabric of the couch underneath.

Cheryl lowered her hand, the head of the bottle being released from her vice like grip as she slowly came to some sort of strange compassion that was bubbling inside her. Whatever this...creature was, it was convincingly real and it made her hate herself for letting it live but for also letting herself come to such hatred – the boundaries of which she found struggling with for years ever since Claudia. Ever since Silent Hill. Cheryl slid off the girl and curled into a ball on the side of the couch as she heard Alessa's cries eventually quiet. Her eyes distant, her mouth croaked as she spit out words. "This isn't real. This isn't real." She repeated the mantra over and over, her eyes closed tight as they began to turn into whispers and eventually silence as she mouthed them over and over.

She would have stayed like that, perhaps for eternity, had she not felt the embrace of the strange girl bringing her arms about her neck like a protective albatross. She immediately tightened in response, but eased as the girl spoke. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. I know this is strange, but for some reason I'm here and I want you to know that I never meant to hurt you. And I won't." Alessa's words reverberated softly in her head like a dim, warm light.

After a small while, Cheryl gently forced the girl's hands from her as she attempted to raise herself in an attempt to make it to the bathroom. She got as far as the door frame before she felt her strength finally leave her and she blacked out from what was happening. Her eyes roll to the back of her head before collapsing against the side of the toilet.


	3. Heaven Is A Place On Earth

Cheryl found herself gazing at her hand as it lingered on the ivory handle. There was nothing necessarily explicit, or strange about it. It was completely familiar, she could feel the lines etched underneath from her fingernails that had grazed them over the years. This was her apartment. Rather, this was her father's apartment. She wasn't sure why she was here, it had been some time since she had seen her dad. He was always busy working on his novels to make time for her anymore. He was in his late fifties, and she knew he had more important things to do than care about the difficulties and trauma his little girl had been through.

A trickle of sweat snapped off Cheryl's chin. There was something decidedly off about this entire situation, but she couldn't quite place what it was. It was some howl from far off, some wind that occasionally carried a cry of clarity but it quickly turned to dross as Cheryl struggled to find the courage to simply turn the handle. This was silly. What was so strange about a daughter visiting her father? Plenty of girls did it all the time, what made this any different? She silently shook her head and let out a slight chuckle – she was about to have a warm visit with the man that raised her. Like any other day, like any other father and daughter.

The door swung open as she put her weight against the frame and some dim light poured out into the corridor. Cheryl took a step inside, calling for her father when she reached the corner and heard sobbing. It wasn't alien, she recognized it. Cheryl covered her mouth when she turned the corner. There was a soft light overhanging a corpse as it laid slump in its chair. The color of its blood soaking and seeking into the green fabric, turning it a sickly color. The blood had streamed through the carpet, snaking in all directions. Her eyes glanced downward and instinctively jumped as her shoes had indented in the thing's blood. Terrified, Cheryl took several steps forward and upon closer inspection noticed a figure kneeling at the front of the corpse.

The girl was clothed in a modest dress, the likes of which becoming unseemly as it became stained with the blood of the person she was shedding tears over – hands clutching at his arms as her screams and cries echoed across the domicile. The girl's voice broke, a desperation rang out and her voice crooned.

"Dad...dad..."

Her bereavement turned to quiet cries as she whispered in longing for the man that mattered so much to her. Cheryl found herself inexorably drawn to the scene, hands shaking as they balled into fists and she felt an overwhelming urge to hit something, anything. The creature, the corpse, the man before her was enshrined in his final moments; his body lifeless, glasses ever so lightly crooked as they threatened to fall off the bridge of his nose at any moment. He was frozen in eternity, and this girl was paying tribute and reverence to his holy visage.

The girl lifted her head at the sound of Cheryl's fist encasing itself into the wall, creases bending towards the intruder and her hand lightly caked in the white dust. Her hand ached, blood lightly mingling with the powder, but it was nothing compared to the scene in front of her. Her father, her dad, Harry Mason, dead. It was impossible, it wasn't feasible. He was fine. He was fine? He was..._not fine_. He was gone. And every bit of her lit up with a fire she hadn't felt in years. The girl's face was sullen as fresh tears continued to dribble down her face, and she watched Cheryl.

"It's not fair, Heather. It's not fair..."

Her face contorted in anguish as she turned back to her father, her cries louder than ever. Heather felt the fire inside her bubble as it hit a fever pitch in her head, and her own screams intertwined with Alessa's as the entirety of the situation came to ahead, and she suddenly lurched over in nausea and pain. Falling to her knees, her vision spun as she reached out to the other girl in assistance. Her mouth opened to say these words, but they would never leave her throat as her body racked and she instinctively heaved as a black liquid exited her mouth instead. The strange vomit was covering some cancerous lump. The cries of an infant grew louder, and Heather's breathing grew laborious as her eyes wavered and she collapsed underneath Alessa. Heather's mouth cracked, weakly apologizing at the altar of her now deceased father. Her vision dimmed, Alessa's lamentations continued and she would continue to mourn until the light overhead burned out in due time and they'd all be lost to the suffocating darkness.


	4. Morning After

The visage of her dead father blurred as Cheryl felt a stinging sensation on the back of her head, before he quietly dissipated and complete darkness played like an empty reel on loop. The empty silence was punctuated by the chirping of an animal, most likely a bird of some sort, far off in the distance and Cheryl found herself staring at the inside of her eyelids before sense returned and she opened her eyes.

Air filling her lungs, Cheryl let out a quiet sigh as she was greeted by what had greeted her for a long while now: the lull white of a ceiling, the floral pattern of the faded wall next to her. Wrapped in the comfortable pink comforter, and two pillows behind her head (just as she liked it). She stayed like that for a moment or two, taking in the fact that whatever hell she had dreamed up was purely just that – a dream. Not unlike the ones she used to have fairly frequently in the months following the ordeal she went through, but this was fine. So long as the horrid visages remained purely fantastical at this point, she didn't really care. Her fingers traced from her navel up to her chest, absentmindedly feeling around and rubbing at skin. It was almost subconscious at this point, Cheryl's need to check for her father's amulet. Although she missed him terribly, she knew its absence only meant good things. She was here, she was okay. If that amulet had to be sacrificed so that she could live on, she'd do it for her father's sake.

Unfortunately, she wasn't really sure what to do with herself at this point. The two years following Silent Hill left her...broken, and in ways she hadn't anticipated. Sure, the nightmares were one thing. Anybody could, or would anticipate such misgivings in the light of the absolute sheer terror she had experienced. But what she didn't account for were things about her that changed in small ways. Small idiosyncrasies, small things that she and only she would notice. Faint stirrings in the night that she caught herself tripping over while she would fall asleep in her bed. The mirrors, her drinking. These were just minor melodies in a greater leitmotif that portrayed who she was. It was more than enough to make Cheryl's face distort in abject disdain, and only she really knew. No matter how close Douglas and her had become over the years, there were things he could never and would never understand about a nineteen year old woman who spent a previous life in pure pain, only to fight tooth and nail to prevent it from fully occurring yet again. She had escaped, she had made it out alive...but, it was often her mind would wander to dark corners. And in these shadowed places she knew the truth. Who she was hadn't made it out. That girl had been slain at the proverbial altar, and what had been wrung and kneaded out of her blood was who she was now. She was mangled, tired. Cheryl would occasionally return to the girl's corpse from time to time, much like she did when she visited the resting place of her father. There were no words. Not really. After all, what could be said? It was supremely ironic, then, that such a scenario reminded her of when Alessa attempted to prevent her from confronting Claudia. It was almost _amusing_, in fact. Cheryl's fingers rubbed incessantly at her skin, almost as if they were hoping to uncover the amulet in the sinew, tissue, and marrow that laid beneath.

Cheryl's hand balled into a fist as a response. Her nails digging into skin, a sharp pain eliciting from the reaction that drowned out such thoughts. A hiss of air drew in and snaked through her teeth. It was enough. A quick glance at her palm only showed a reddened hue, but no actual blood. Satisfied, she shifted and turned over in her bed only to feel her heart quicken upon seeing a figure curled up in her chair. Feminine, brunette, freckle-faced – there was no doubt, it was _her_. Whatever Cheryl's intentions might have been were dashed when a quick rise from the bed incited more sharp pain to flare at the back of her skull. Cheryl let out an audible grunt as her face winced and she brought the tips of her fingers to inspect, only to find a small lump beneath the locks of her hair.

Alessa stirred, eyes fluttering as her arms and legs stretched and her mouth parted in a small yawn. Energy returning to her face when she noticed Cheryl was no longer sleeping, but rather reared back in an almost defensive pose. Alessa couldn't help but smile, she was thrilled her younger self was conscious.

"Oh, you're awake!" her voice raised in cadence. "I'm glad you're okay, I was pretty worried when you passed out in the bathroom last night. I wasn't sure if you were sick, or..." she trailed as an expression of concern came over her face but for a brief moment before it eased into a comforting grin, and then a small giggle as Cheryl's body language was more amusing than serious.

"I guess Mr. Cartland was right, though. All you really did need was to sleep it off." Cheryl's eyes narrowed at the sound of her keeper being referenced "How do you know Douglas?" the words spilling like acid from her mouth. Two raps at the door drew the attention of both girls as their gaze shifted, the face of an older gentleman peeking into the bedroom. "Because she's the one who helped me get you into bed last night."

The man placed his hand on the doorknob and pressed so that he was now standing in the doorway of Cheryl's room. "Although, believe me, it was just a little strange when I came back home and thought you'd completely changed your style again only to find the actual you passed out on the floor." Douglas caught what he was saying when he looked over to the modestly dressed girl in the chair "Uh, sorry. I mean, the younger you?" his index finger tapped the base of his chin.

"Anyways, I thought I'd make you girls some breakfast. I know Cheryl isn't terribly fond of my cooking, but it's gotta be better than those toaster strudel things she usually munches down on in the mornings." As if it were some cosmic disposition of fate, the aroma of eggs, of bacon, of pancakes danced its way into the room and Cheryl's nose got a good whiff and found that she actually might tolerate his food today. She couldn't remember the last time she ate anything, and her stomach betrayed her when noises were heard coming it. Douglas' mouth curled into a slight grin, and he chuckled.

"So, get some clothes on and I'll meet you two in the kitchen." Douglas pulled the door close and resumed attending to the food on the stove. He wasn't sure what to make of this situation, and some small part of him worried this might have been some ploy by the group of people that hired him to find Cheryl, so that they would take her away. It just seemed so surreal, even in the face of everything he witnessed two years ago. Here was this girl, unassuming and plain. Puritan, even, like she was fresh from an Amish community. He half expected Cheryl had found God, given the girl's homely appearance. And she was in his apartment, no explanation, no reasoning, nothing. He ran his fingers through his hair as he trifled with the sizzling eggs in the pain, paying little attention as he got lost in his thoughts about the night prior. He'd arrived home a little later than usual, paperwork from the office had seemed never ending. Crime didn't sleep, but Douglas knew too well that he had to rest himself if he could ever hope to put away bad people. Not to mention, he had another mouth to feed now, too. He didn't mind, however. Ever since his son was tragically murdered during a botched robbery, Douglas deeply missed the sounds of life in his home. When it was just him, the silence seemed almost overwhelming. His boy may not have been the best son in the world, but he loved him no matter what. Without him, his home seemed alien to him – almost hostile. The emptiness reminded him time and again, when his footsteps sang a duet that had no other partner, that his son was gone and there was no bringing him back.

But then some strange woman offered him a job, and that job led him to a young girl, and through events nobody except the two of them could possibly hope to comprehend he was now her guardian. At least, that's how he felt. He sometimes wondered what she really thought of him, but he didn't press. She'd suffered enough damage. Now, he was just happy to hear footsteps that weren't his own in the new apartment they moved into together. So it was just a little bizarre when Douglas made it home last night to find not one, but two of the young girl. He thought she might have been some long, lost twin and instead was told that she was some past life, or something? He didn't really question it, even if this revelation kept him up the rest of the night. At the very least he could hear her out.

A splash of hot grease crackled and splattered on Douglas' skin, the burning snapping him out of his head and alerting him to the fact that the sunny side up eggs had now become scrambled thanks to his daydreaming. Removing the pan from heat, he carefully placed them in a small bowl and dug a spoon out of the drawer. He could hear some commotion from Cheryl's room as he placed the last of the meal on the table and seconds later both girls emerged. "You girls go ahead and take a seat, I'll get you some plates." Cheryl took her usual spot at the opposite end of the table, while Alessa sat in the seat next to her. Cheryl's mind couldn't really think at the moment, there was just so much to process. It didn't help matters that her head was pounding. She asked Douglas for a particularly large glass of water, and some aspirin when Alessa immediately volunteered to help. Assured it was fine, and that he had everything in hand, the girls began helping themselves to the piles of food on the table when Douglas placed the glass next to Cheryl's plate along with three white tablets. Cheryl's brusque display of thanks didn't affect him, he was used to it. He'd usually find her slumped over at the table with one of her father's books open, and beneath her face. He worried for her, but he kept such sentiment to himself. He knew how much her father meant to her.

Cheryl downed the aspirin with several swallows of water and immediately felt nauseous when her eyes gazed over the mounds of food in her plate. She thought she could eat such greasy deliciousness, but with all the alcohol circulating in her blood she barely had the appetite. A gingerly grasp on a non-buttered, plain piece of toast, Cheryl's mouth opened with some reticence as she angled it inside and bit down. Seconds later, the effect rang true. The texture, the crispness of the piece of baked bread moved around in her mouth mixing with her saliva. Her eyes closed, and her jaws opened for another piece and she gladly masticated. A chunk of it swirling in the corner of her mouth, she felt peaceful for whatever reason. She looked around the table. Alessa was methodical, a fork in her left hand and knife in her right as she deliberately and neatly steadied, sliced, and ate each piece that was on her plate. Cheryl swallowed and looked over at Douglas, face shrouded by the morning newspaper he so often liked to read before work. She took another bite of toast before placing it on her plate and giving it a slight shove.

The newspaper lowered, "finished?" Cheryl nodded her head. "But you've barely touched your plate, kiddo..." Douglas knew not to push too much, and left it at that. Alessa placed her utensils in her plate. "That was really good, Mr. Cartland. Thank you so much." Douglas simply waved, and when Alessa offered to wash the dishes he insisted that it wasn't necessary and he'd see to the clean-up. Cheryl noticed Alessa's head nodded once or twice before asking if she was alright. Alessa smiled and let out a small laugh "Oh, yes, I'm fine. I'm just a little tired, that's all. I watched you all night to make sure you were okay. I'm sorry if I seem a bit strange at the moment." Before Cheryl could get a reply out she heard the crinkling of Douglas' paper "If you want you could rest in Cheryl's bed, I'm sure she wouldn't mind." Douglas' gaze shifted to the young girl and immediately felt what must have been tens of thousands of daggers being relentlessly hurled in his direction. Cheryl looked at the other girl and noticed a muted desperation in her eyes. A sigh escaped from Cheryl's lips "Yeah, that's fine." Arms suddenly flew around her neck in an embrace as Alessa profusely thanked her. Before Cheryl could pry her off of her Alessa had made her way back to the room she stood watch, and Cheryl removed herself from the table as she followed the girl.

It was minutes later when Douglas heard the sound of running water, and shortly after Cheryl had made her way back to the table where she sat and quietly fidgeted with the same piece of toast before she opened her mouth to say something, only to be stopped by Douglas.

"I know you've been drinking."

A red hue plastered across her face, as her mouth curled in bewilderment and she felt like a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming vehicle. A few moments of awkward silence passed before Douglas looked at Cheryl and continued.

"We'll talk about it later tonight, okay?" his voice had softened, leading the girl to believe that her swift demise on some darkened road had been stayed for the time being. Douglas was like this – stern, possibly even aloof at times but she knew he always meant well. She looked down, and in her embarrassment simply nodded in agreement.

"How's the girl doing?"

Cheryl looked up at Douglas before informing him that she had managed to find some clothes that fit her for when she exited the shower. Cheryl may have been wrangled into sharing her bed, but she wasn't going to allow someone in it without being clean. Much less a stranger, and much much less some..._thing_ that wore her face, and shared her existence. For Christ's sakes, Cheryl wasn't even sexually active at the time. Boys might have been an interest once, but that was so far removed from her life at this point in time she hadn't humored the thought since Silent Hill. Cheryl found herself forcibly removed from much of humankind as a result, separated by some vast ocean that found her staring down the pitch black of non-existence; her legs dangling off the edge, like a kid's on a back porch one Summer evening.

Satisfied with such a response, Douglas gathered his things as he got ready for work. She promised him she'd clean up the kitchen so he wouldn't be late, as she sipped the remains of the glass of water. Douglas was halfway out the apartment door, when he stopped and turned. "What are we going to do about her?" Cheryl downed what was left, and after a brief pause she looked up at him.

"We'll talk about it later tonight."


End file.
